Red Ties
by WuHaoNi
Summary: Gibbs & Co. try their luck against Patrick Jane, a suspect whose enigmatic past just might be the key to their murder investigation. Crossover with the Mentalist.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I am not the owner of either NCIS or Mentalist.

**Author's Notes:** I have always wanted to cross over these two shows ever since the Mentalist first appeared. Jane vs. Gibbs is something that should definitely happen, and not just in my story. Intimate knowledge of the Mentalist is not required, but I will give you a quick rundown of it below.

_Patrick Jane used to work as a TV psychic until his narcisstic streak led to him taunting a serial killer named Red John on live TV. This precipitated a chain of event in which his wife and daughter killed, he had a subsequent nervous breakdown, and Jane emerged from the end broken, slightly humbled and a thirst for revenge. Jane now uses his immense talents of observation and knowledge of human behavior to solve crimes for the CBI (California Bureau of Investigation) as a consult. He is joined by Teresa Lisbon, Kimball Cho, Wayne Rigsby, and Grace Van Pelt._

In NCIS world, this takes place before season 7.

* * *

Vacations are a foreign word to Patrick Jane.

He hasn't taken one in six years.

The word has painful connotations that he doesn't like to consider anymore. Elaborate trips to anywhere and everywhere, because they were the type of family that enjoyed frequent outings. He had wanted to give his daughter a full breadth of experiences—almost as if he had foreseen her fate at a young age.

Vacations are something one should do with family. They should be enjoyed.

No, Patrick Jane doesn't take vacations anymore.

He does, however, take trips.

"Jane."

Lisbon's voice is insistent and he chooses to ignore her, keeping up his façade of sleeping, an arm slung over his eyes.

He's not sleeping, of course, he never sleeps and they both know this.

She viciously pokes him in the side, pointer finger digging in between his ribs.

"I'm up," he says, sliding across the couch to get away from her.

"I need to talk to you."

"Yes?" He smiles innocently up at her.

"Did you know you have two week's leave accumulated?"

Jane widens his eyes. _"Really?" _

"You didn't know," Lisbon says skeptically.

"No, dear Teresa, I did not." Jane considers adding a brief witty comment about his lack of psychic powers, but figures the joke has been made far too many times before. He settles for the name gimmick—always a crowd pleaser.

"Don't call me that," Lisbon snaps, and he grins because he's gotten a rise out of her. "What are you going to do about the leave, Jane?"

He lets his body do his talking for himself for once and shrugs.

It's painful enough wracking his brain on the weekends to figure out how not to spend his time there; planning out fourteen days just seems like cruel and unusual punishment that he doesn't want to experience any time soon.

Cho, a little tanner and recently back from his own trip, perks up. His face switches from his usual stoic expression and flickers briefly to eagerness. "You don't want it, Jane?"

"I'll give it to Lisbon," Jane declares with a magnanimous smile. Cho deflates and turns back to his computer, defeated. "She looks like she could use some R & R. How long has it been?"

Lisbon's lips tighten. _You don't want to play this game,_ her expression seems to say. "You should really take the leave."

Her tone is an interesting mix of gentleness and subtle threats.

"What am I going to do?" Lightly, without the undercurrent of panic that he can feel himself fighting to reveal. Smooth smile, ease on the even smoother charm. "I'll get bored."

"Practice surfing," Lisbon replies with a deadpanned expression that has Cho smirking into his keyboard.

_You're doing this even if you don't want to._

She's stubborn and he's too tired to successfully maneuver his way out of this situation. He could of course, there's nothing that he can't do (except save his wife and child), but the two hours of sleep that he's gotten over the past two days just hasn't done anything for quick mental processing.

"Fine," Jane agrees, holding up his hands in defeat.

Lisbon isn't a graceful winner and doesn't bother to hide her triumphant smirk.

His leave goes into effect on Thursday, and Jane spends all of twenty minutes on Wednesday night bobbing around in his…house…to realize that fourteen days of oppressive silence is enough to drive him insane.

Again.

Impulsivity drives him, as it often does, and he seeks out noise like Risgby seeks out peanut M&Ms. He's pulling into the parking lot and jets roar overhead before he's fully able to realize that he has just driven himself to the airport.

"What am I doing?" he asks himself, clutching the steering wheel.

_I need to get out of here._

This realization overwhelms him, and his throat is choked up and he's gagging on memories and the past, and _god_, he needs to get the hell out of here.

It takes two seconds and he makes up his mind.

Closes the door and escapes the car.

Takes the first available flight out of California.

And if said flight is to Washington, D.C. halfway across the country, then so be it.

Jane needs a vacation.

* * *

"Hey, Probie, pass the soy sauce, would you?" Tony DiNozzo demands.

Without looking, Timothy McGee lobs two packets across the room, hitting Tony square in the side of the head and falling to the floor.

"Nice shot, McGee," Ziva David compliments, twirling lo mein noodles around her chopsticks.

McGee gives a little smug smile.

"Ha ha ha," Tony says sarcastically. "You know, there's no sympathy for the injured these days. How am I supposed to get that?"

He points to his injured leg, propped up on his desk. "I got shot, you know."

Ziva rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Just give him his soy sauce, McGee or he will be whining all night."

McGee trudges over, unhappily. As he is about to bend down, Tony takes the opportunity to give him a slap on the back of the head.

McGee quickly retaliates, but not before throwing the packets onto Tony's desk. "There's your damn sauce."

"You know, McGee, the doc said one more hit to the old noggin—"

"—and you might have brain damage, Tony. Yes, we all heard him," Ziva says, exasperated.

"I doubt soy sauce is going to do anything serious," McGee says.

"Well, you're not a doctor, are you, _McDreamy_?" Tony says, then snickers to himself.

McGee rolls his eyes and maintains his deadpan expression. "You've been waiting a long time to use that one, haven't you?"

"Four years," Tony confirms. "Hey, can someone get me a drink? I'd get it myself, but—"

"If you say 'I was shot' one more time, Tony, I will give you something to complain about!" Ziva snaps.

She tosses her empty carton into the trash with more force than necessary.

"Probie…"

McGee sighed. "Yeah, Tony, I'll get your damn soda. Do you have any money?"

Tony pats himself down. "Left it in my other crutches."

"Of course you don't," replies McGee over Ziva's growl of irritation. "Fine."

He opens up the lower drawer of his desk and pulls out a leathery bag, with both Tony and Ziva eye with interest.

"What is _that_, McGee?"

"It is a purse, Tony," says Ziva immediately. "Surely that is obvious."

"It is _not_ a purse, Ziva," McGee says defensively. "It's a satchel."

"Satchel?" Tony guffaws. "What, is that McGeek speak for man purse?"

"A satchel," McGee begins in a dignified tone, "is a rectangular bag, usually made of leather or cloth and provided with a shoulder strap. Its origin is 14th Century; from Old French 'sachel' meaning 'a little bag.'"

"You got that off the Internet," says Tony.

"Yeah? So what if I did?" McGee lifts his chin defiantly.

"Means you know just how ridiculous it is for you to be wearing that thing."

"Look, my mom got it for me as a gift, okay?"

"So why didn't you just throw it out as soon as you got it?"

"I'd feel bad," McGee says.

"Yeah, I feel bad for you too," Tony chuckles.

"Besides, my mom would _know_ if I wasn't wearing it."

"Lie, Ziva?" Tony asks, looking at the Mossad officer.

"Oh, yes, Tony," Ziva confirms, smirking. "McGee is not telling us the truth."

"Fine," McGee snaps, seconds after Ziva finishes her sentence. Certainly not the best man to hold up under questioning. "I like it, okay? It's sturdy, it holds everything that I need, _and_ it's fashionable. I know that's a foreign concept for you to grasp, Tony."

"Hey, I'm a good dresser!" Tony replies immediately. "I look nice, right, Ziva?"

Ziva just smiles.

"Aw, come on…you said you liked this suit!" Tony says, struggling to his feet with some difficulty. "My ass looks good in this, right?"

He picks up his crutches and turns around, wiggling his butt as much as he could with a cast on his leg.

There is a suspicious lack of commentary from either Ziva or McGee, and Tony closes his eyes.

_Why me_?

"Boss is right behind me, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah, DiNozzo, I am."

Tony faces Gibbs, a cheery smile on his face. "Hi boss, miss me?"

Gibbs walks to his desk without a comment.

"Right," Tony sinks back into his chair, and lifts his leg to rest on top of his desk. "Probie, are you gonna get my drink anytime soon?"

McGee's succinct response is to ding Tony in the head with a dollar seventy-five in quarters.

"Thanks," Tony says, teeth gritted. "Appreciate it."

"McGee, stop throwing things at DiNozzo. He's no good to me unconscious," comes Gibbs' reprimand.

"He's no good to you awake, either," McGee mutters under his breath.

"I heard that." Tony makes a face at McGee.

"Gear up!" Gibbs' usual curt order comes on the heels of Tony's sentence, and the sudden command drives all joking out the window.

Arms folded, Tony watches forlornly as Ziva tugs her baseball cap over her head and McGee slings his satchel over his shoulder. When they are done, both stand in front of his desk and look down at him with something that Tony hopes is sympathy and not pity.

"It is a shame you cannot come with us, Tony," Ziva says.

"Yeah," Tony agrees.

"Oh, he's coming with us," Gibbs says.

Tony's face alights with eagerness. "I am?"

The look Gibbs shoots him would stop a grizzly in his tracks, but it makes Tony's grin widen. "Yeah, DiNozzo, ya are. Or do your ears need to be checked out?"

"No, no, ears are fine," he says hurriedly, clambering to his feet in a pellmell of fiberglass cast and metal crutches. "Where's the fire, boss? Is there any special reason?"

"Dead sailor, DiNozzo. Do I need another reason?"

"Of course not, Boss! Lead the way!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist or NCIS.**

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who put this story on their favorites and/or reviewed! This is just a short update to whet your appetite.**

Jane finds the plane ride to D.C. really more amusing than he should.

It is a red-eye flight, which means that many of his fellow passengers are either seasoned travelers or have somewhere urgent to be. They slump in their seats as they wait for the boarding call, beaten and battered by the long lines at security, simply glad to be heading to their destination. There is only one child—and the girl bears no resemblance to his own daughter, which Jane is thoroughly glad of.

He is in coach despite his best attempts at charming the young woman at the ticket counter into giving him a seat in first class. Lisbon would call it a blow to his ego (_Losing your touch, Jane?)_, but he prefers to think of it as an opportunity to observe a greater sampling of people.

His seat number is called, and Jane stretches, languidly getting in line behind a tall black man chewing a toothpick.

Seven people stand between him and the lady inspecting boarding passes, and Jane eyes them with routine interest.

The verdict: two adulterers, a closeted businessman, an alcoholic, a newly wedded couple and a cop.

Jane flips his pass with agile fingers as he waits, mindlessly performing the sleight of hand he had perfected as a child. _Appear…disappear…_

"You're cleared to carry a firearm aboard, Director Vance," the lady says to the cop in front of him. "Enjoy your flight."

"Thank you," Vance replies, and walks down the boarding ramp.

_Director, _Jane muses, handing over his pass with a small bit of regret at losing his last bit of entertainment. _Like Morrow. Don't those guys have private planes?_

"Enjoy your flight," the lady says, smiling blandly.

"Oh, I will." Jane smiles.

He can feel the plane's engines humming underneath him as he walks closer, and he's surprised at the pit of excitement starting to uncurl in his stomach. Yes, he has always found planes to be an adventure of sorts, but this whole affair is really more of a coping mechanism than anything. Jane's all about running away from his problems; in fact, he finds it to be a fine way of dealing with things, no matter what the shrinks say.

It was a _happy_ sort of excitement, Jane analyzes critically, giving the captain a little nod as he passed. Or maybe it was just a sense of satisfaction at having a new environment—the CBI was used to his presence now, and their reactions were predictable, which meant boring.

_Perhaps Lisbon was right_, Jane thinks, making his way down the crowded aisle of the plane with new boyish enthusiasm.

Well, in any case, he wouldn't be saying that to her face anytime soon. The amount of crow that would be eaten would be enough to sustain Rigsby for a week.

_If she wants to know, I had a miserable time, and I won't be doing this again_.

But then that would probably make her eyes soften in pity, and okay, crow would be infinitesimally preferable to Lisbon _pitying_ him.

Jane stops at _17A_, and is mildly astonished to find Director Vance sitting in his seat.

The man looks up, still chewing the same toothpick from before. "I took the window seat; I hope you don't mind."

His tone is not in the least bit apologetic and greatly resembles: if you do mind, tough luck.

_Awfully presumptuous_, Jane thinks wryly. He's briefly tempted to say 'yes', just to see what happens, but the memory of the gun deters him and he shakes his head in the negative.

Jane buckles himself in, then proceeds to examine Vance from his peripherals, guessing that the other man would not welcome outright observation.

Dark suit, good material, with a rather whimsical tie that didn't seem to match. From the wedding ring on his finger, Jane assumed a wife or child had picked it out. This man seemed like the type to have color coordinated socks. He exuded confidence and toughness—maybe a former athlete if the healed broken nose was anything to go by. _Boxer_, Jane decided, taking in Vance's coiled hands, which rested lightly on his armrest. Ex-smoker—an easy deduction from the toothpick habit.

AType-A personality, someone who wanted to control every situation and other people.

_Fun_.

Devoid of his usual forms of entertainment, and too restless to feign sleep, Jane decides to initiate conversation.

"So, what's your name?" he asks over the purring of the engine.

Vance, who has been watching the clouds pass by for the last thirty minutes, looks over with an irritated expression.

"Just because we're going to be sharing a plane ride doesn't make us pals," he replies.

_Hostile._

"Oh, I'm just making conversation," says Jane lightly.

"Don't," Vance says, folding his arms. His mustache twitches.

"See, this is where you say, 'My name is'…"

Vance's lips tighten around his toothpick. "Sir, this will be a very long plane ride for you if you continue to speak to me. I'm not interested in making your acquaintance."

"That's a shame."

Vance turns back to the window.

"Do you fly to D.C. often?"

Jane receives the glare with a grin.

By the time he's done with Vance, the man will be ready to kill him six ways to Sunday.

He keeps up a nice, steady stream of chatter in which he reveals nothing personal—either about Vance or himself. Jane suspects that any pointed comments about the director's life would have been met with threats of handcuffs. And since Lisbon is not here to liberate him from the tiring policies of other law enforcement agencies—or give her usual spiel: 'I'm sorry. Yes, he's an ass. No, we can't get him a muzzle; it's against PETA regulations.'—Jane employs his rarely used mind filter, and focuses on being annoying _without_ being probing. He wonders, idly, as he waxes poetically about the relationship of the couple in the seats in front of them, just how much he can push Vance's buttons.

He plays this game with Lisbon every day.

It's _fun_.

He likes seeing the frustration build on her face, and watch her squint suspiciously as she attempts to figure out his latest theory. It is a good routine, but not much of a challenge anymore. Jane has figured out the little quirks of her personality and most of her tells; it is almost like watching a favorite movie over again. Entertaining, certainly, but when you already know the ending, there's no point of sitting through it. Sometimes he suspects Lisbon of simply going through the motions of arguing with him, which is hardly satisfactory for his frequently bored mind. Jane wants a sparring partner, someone who understands just how much a battle of words can exhilarate, and thrill.

He wants to push someone to the breaking point, and to have that person push _back_ at him, no holds barred.

To his disappointment, Vance does not prove to be his special someone.

He had wistfully pictured the ride concluding with a thrilling spectacle in which Vance's hands close around his throat for a good throttle, but the Director of A Federal Agency apparently possessed greater self-control than Jane had originally thought. Other than a magnificent scowl when he exits the plane, Vance shows no outward sign of a seething bad temper.

Let down by his social experiment, Jane steps out into the early D.C. dawn and begins the unenviable process of flagging down a taxi.

The hotel that the driver recommends to him is not fancy, but it suits his purposes. He checks in, yawning discretely as he rides the elevator to the 7th floor.

His room is clean enough, and he carefully sets down his suitcase on the floor before heading into the bathroom to splash water on his face. It does nothing to head off his impending sleepiness, and Jane is forced to confront the fact that he will have to sleep. It is, after all, three in the morning California time. He hadn't slept at all the night before. But Jane is still unhappy as he lays down on the mattress, hands clasped behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling.

_That watermark looks like a poinsettia. Lisbon likes poinsettias, doesn't she? I learned how to make an origami poinsettia...maybe I should make one for her. She liked that frog I made her...but everyone likes frogs. Well, Van Pelt probably doesn't like frogs. No, she probably likes those little cartoon frogs. Why am I thinking _like_ so much? Enjoy. That's a better word. I like that word, enjoy..._

Jane is awakened hours later by a sharp knock on his door.

"NCIS! Open up!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist or NCIS.**

**A/N: The long awaited to chapter 3. A special shout out goes to IMSoto, whose plea for this chapter finally motivated me to update.**

"Rock, paper, scissors, shoot."

Tony's hand covers McGee's fist, and McGee groans. "Ah, damnit."

Tony grins, and picks up his crutch from where it had been leaning on the car. "Fair is fair, probie. All aboard the David Express."

"Come, McGee. It will be fun," says Ziva, hefting her bag over her shoulder. She does not look at Tony.

McGee shoots him a sour look as he dejectedly follows her to the other car. Tony awkwardly opens the door and manages to slide into the backseat with minimal fuss.

He stretches out his leg, and says cheerfully, "Onward ho, boss!"

"Don't make me come back there and headslap you, DiNozzo," Gibbs says, eying him in the rear view mirror. He takes a sip of coffee. "Bad enough that you and McGee had to play that stupid game."

"He was going to make me drive with Ziva, boss," Tony protests as he buckles himself in. "The last time she drove me home from the hospital, I fell off the seat."

"Knocked some sense into you, I hope," Gibbs says, watching Ziva pull out of the parking space in her usual haphazard manner.

"Yeah—that I'm never driving with her again while I'm still on crutches. She's crazy!"

Gibbs gives a little half-smile and drives forward. Tony waves to Ziva as they pass, and she gives him a smooth impassive look.

_What was that_ _about_? Tony wonders, bemused. _Why is Ziva giving me the cold shoulder? I haven't said anything stupid—well _that_ stupid—to her lately. Maybe she's just tired._

"So which hotel are we headed to?" he says out loud, putting Ziva's perplexing behavior out of his mind. "Monaco? Hyatt? The Renaissance is pretty nice. It's got a great view from the terrace; you can see all of Connecticut Avenue."

"Courtyard Marriot."

"Oh." He's rather disappointed by this revelation. "Is that the one near the airport?'

"Yup," says Gibbs succinctly, keeping his eyes fixed to the road in front of him.

Tony drums his fingers on his lap. "Neat."

Gibbs looks up. "I need to get you a muzzle, or are ya going to shut that mouth of yours for five seconds?"

"Muzzle might be a wise investment." Tony grins, but it slides off his face as Gibbs slides to a screeching halt at the upcoming red light. He grabs at the armrest defensively as Gibbs suddenly accelerates through the intersection and swerves in front of the car next to him.

The driver honks angrily.

"Uh…driving a little fast there, aren't you, boss?" Tony calls in a casual manner, secretly praying that they won't hit any bumps at this speed.

"Am I, DiNozzo?" comes Gibbs' inscrutable response.

The car hits a bumpy patch in the road, and Tony winces as his leg is jostled.

"Uh…" he flounders for words. "Shutting up, Boss."

Gibbs gives a satisfied smirk.

XXXXX

McGee and Ziva screech into the parking garage with the subtlety of a tornado, and McGee feels his stomach uncurl from the fetal position with a great sense of relief. No matter how many times they've driven together, he still cannot get used to the _oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-die _sensation that results every time Ziva presses her foot to the accelerator.

He opens the door and steps out into the humid air, loosening his tie and scanning the rows for any sign of Gibbs and Tony. He doesn't expect Ducky to arrive for at least another fifteen minutes—thirty if they end up getting lost like they usually do.

Ziva has already opened the car trunk, and is sweeping her dark hair into a bun. She settles her cap on her head, and cocks an eyebrow at McGee's blanched expression.

"Are you not feeling well McGee?"

"I'm fine, Ziva," he says in his most professional tone.

He's not in the mood for any cracks about his tolerance for her driving.

"You are looking a bit green around the lips," she observes amusedly.

"Gills."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's 'green around the gills'. That's the expression."

Ziva frowns. "You do not have any gills. And I am sure that fish do not become green when carsick."

"Chalk it up to another inexplicable Americanism," McGee advises, coming to stand behind her. He reaches into the trunk secures his camera around his neck.

Gibbs and Tony pull up in the space next to theirs, and McGee is oddly satisfied to see Tony looking frazzled in the backseat. He doesn't wish Tony harm—but he _does _enjoy seeing the other man taken down a peg. It's a strange combination of sibling and professional rivalry mixed in with genuine fondness and trust. The fact remains that no matter how many times a day Tony gets on his nerves, McGee is always there to watch Tony's six.

Gibbs steps out of the car, and begins giving orders in his rapid fire manner.

"McGee—interviews. David—bag and tag. DiNozzo—wait for Ducky."

"What?" Tony says, struggling out of the car. "Boss—"

"Meet us in 712," Gibbs says, tossing the car keys to Tony. He begins to stride toward the elevator.

McGee hands off the camera to Ziva and they follow Gibbs hurriedly, but not before McGee catches a glimpse of Tony's closed off expression.

It's not satisfaction that he feels now. It's sympathy.

The elevator car smells like an odd combination of engine exhaust and old cigarette smoke, and McGee wiggles his fingers to the tinny Muzak piped in through the speakers. Ziva regards the closed doors with a neutral face, and Gibbs' jaw clenches even more tightly than normal.

They step out into a hallway decorated in a tasteful green carpet and cream colored wallpaper. Activity buzzes at the far end of the hallway, and McGee can see hotel patrons standing in their doorways, craning their heads to see. He watches their expressions, looking for fear, guilt or excitement, but he mostly just sees general curiosity.

He'll start with the ones closest to the body and work his way down the hall, because in all likelihood, the chances of the others seeing something important is slim to none.

A tall, dark haired detective in an ill-fitting grey suit comes to meet them, lanky arms crossed over his chest.

"NCIS?" he verifies in a light southern drawl.

Gibbs nods.

"I'm Detective Ross Andrews with Metro. It's a goddamn bloody mess in there. Guy's a fucking bastard."

He twists his mouth into a scowl.

"I'm real glad I don't have to work this one."

McGee's imagination goes into overdrive, picturing their suspect as a bona fide Hannibal Lecter. The more he thinks about it, the more gruesome the images become, and he just wants to see the body. Reality can hardly be worse than what he's picturing.

"We'll take it from here," Gibbs answers.

Andrews gives a mock salute, and waves the Metro technicians away from the scene from where they have gathered, speaking in quiet whispers.

McGee's stomach turns as he looks at the yellow tape.

Gibbs enters first, then Ziva. McGee steels himself and ducks under.

The first thing he sees when he enters the crime scene is the bloody smiley face on the wall. He knows it's blood because he can smell the iron, which seeps into his nostrils and imprints on his mind.

He takes a further step toward the body on the bed, and then covers his mouth with his sleeve. No matter how many crime scenes he sees, he can never get used to the stinking rot of decomposition. The body is bloated and swollen—gases have expanded the dead tissue—and barely resembles a sailor except for the soiled white uniform.

McGee takes note of the three bars on the shoulder, and thinks that someone will have missed the captain. He sweeps his eyes down the body with detached studiousness—ignoring the gaping wound through the torso—and trying to keep his own revulsion from showing on his face. This was once a _person_, and now they were studying his corpse like a piece of _meat_.

"Captain Jacob Brogan," Ziva announces, holding up a wallet with gloved fingers. "A wife and two children."

And now they have to tell his _family_ what had happened. Sometimes, McGee really hates his job.

Gibbs grunts.

McGee moves to the collection of personal effects, and selects a plane ticket stub from the pile.

"Came here on a red eye from California, Boss," McGee reports.

Gibbs stops picking through Captain Brogan's pockets to eye McGee intently. "Which flight?"

"Uhh—Delta Airlines. Flight number 0024601."

There is something not quite right in Gibbs' eyes, but McGee can't put his finger on it.

Ducky and Palmer come through the door, followed by a tired looking Tony.

Palmer's eyes widen like a frightened deer. "Doctor, is that _blood_?"

"Ya think, Palmer?" said Gibbs shortly.

"Jethro…" Ducky sent Gibbs a Look. "I believe Abigail will be able to give us a more accurate description."

"McGee—samples."

"I thought I was interviewing, Boss."

"Well, you're not doing much of it, are ya?"

"I was waiting for Ducky…"

"Go interview then."

"Boss?"

"McGee!" Gibbs barks.

"Right," McGee says, and is out the door before Gibbs can change his mind.

In the hallway, he breathes deeply, grateful to be away from the blood. He feels immediately guilty, but pushes it away in favor of knocking on the door across from the crime scene.

"NCIS! Open up!" he calls out.

The response is slow, but eventually the door opens, revealing a haggard looking man in a three piece grey suit. He looks puzzled.

"NCIS?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," McGee clarifies quickly, taking the confusion as ignorance of the agency. "I'm Special Agent Tim McGee, and I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr…?"

"Jane. Patrick Jane. Who was murdered?"

McGee frowns. "How did you know it was a murder?"

"The man in the bowtie is far too old to be an agent," Jane says. "Therefore he's most likely a medical examiner, here to examine the body. A Navy man, presumably."

McGee looks over his shoulder at Ducky, who is helping Jimmy Palmer load the body onto a gurney.

"You're here to ask me if I saw anything."

"Uh…yeah," McGee says slowly. He peeks around Jane's body and takes in the rumpled bedcovers and the closed suitcase. "Did you?"

"I was asleep," Jane says.

"How long have you been staying at this hotel?"

"My flight got in last night."

"Your flight?" McGee repeats, jotting this fact down in his notebook. "Was it a red eye?"

There is a brief moment of hesitation before Jane answers, "Yes. Why?"

"What airline?"

"Delta. Flight 0024601, terminal three. You still haven't answered my question."

"Are you familiar with the name Captain Jacob Brogan?"

"You think I knew the victim, rode on the same flight, followed to his hotel room and then killed him," Jane surmises, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"I'm just interviewing witnesses, Mr. Jane," McGee says politely.

"I work with the CBI as a consultant. I know how cops work."

"You work with the California Bureau of Investigations?"

Jane pulls out his badge, and offers it up to McGee for inspection. McGee studies it, and then hands it back.

Jane smiles wanly. "I'd like to see the body, if you don't mind. Offer another perspective."

"I don't know if my boss would like that…"

Infuriatingly, Jane steps around him and begins to head across the hall. McGee makes a grab for his shoulder and misses, as he ducks under the tape.

"You can't go in there!" McGee says, following him.

"McGee, who is this?" Gibbs shouts from within the hotel room.

"He's okay, boss, he's a consultant with the CBI," McGee says hurriedly, coming to stand behind Jane. He tries to look in control of the situation, but utterly fails.

"I don't care if he consults with the Pentagon; get him out of my crime scene!" Gibbs barks.

"Yes, boss," McGee says immediately. "Come on, Mr. Jane."

But Jane is standing ramrod straight, his blue eyes trained on the bloody smile on the other side of the room. He ignores McGee's prompt, and instead takes a step closer, fingers moving in gruesome parody of the macabre art.

"I know who killed your captain."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own either NCIS or the Mentalist.**

**A/N: Miracles of miracles, a quick update! Thank you for all of your lovely reviews.**

McGee wonders briefly if it is possible to die of acute shock. He knows that his mouth is hanging open in the most unattractive way, but damned if he can close it. A few feet away, Ziva has narrowed her eyes in deep suspicion, and Tony is wearing a baffled expression as he wobbles on his crutches.

Gibbs steps closer to Jane until they are nearly toe to toe. He has used this to intimidate many a suspect before, but Jane appears unimpressed.

"You're using your physical presence to intimidate me into confessing," Jane says casually, dissecting Gibbs' strategy like butter. "You think that I'm trying to insert myself into this investigation in order to relieve my kill as some serial killers do,."

He uses his left hand to gesture, the other still frozen in an imitation of the bloody mouth.

Gibbs glares icily.

Jane blinks.

"I assure you, I have no ill intentions towards you or any of your team. I'm merely trying to help you catch a murderer."

"Who are you?" Gibbs says softly.

McGee winces. When Gibbs' voice lowers, he is at his most dangerous.

"Patrick Jane. CBI consultant." Jane grins impudently, and stuffs his right hand in his pocket. "And you?"

"Gibbs. This is my crime scene, Jane."

"It's _a_ crime scene. You don't _own_ a crime scene."

Tony speaks up. "I think what Gibbs is trying to say—"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs snaps, and Tony falls silent immediately. "What are you doing in D.C.?"

"Vacationing. So, Gibbs, McGee, DiNozzo, and you must be…?" Jane turns to Ziva, standing close to him.

Instead of answering, Ziva moves quickly, wrenching Jane's arm behind his back and shoving him face first into the nearby desk.

"Whoa!" Jane exclaims, voice muffled by oak. "Okay, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding."

"No misunderstanding," Ziva says crisply, securing both wrists in handcuffs. "Mr. Jane, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder."

"Look, I didn't kill anyone," Jane says quickly, blonde head moving side to side, looking for a mark to work his charm on. "Call Theresa Lisbon…18165553900. Number two in my phone. She'll vouch for me."

"Tony, with me," Gibbs orders. "McGee, finish processing the scene."

"By myself?" McGee says without thinking, looking around the room. At least eight hours of work with a partner. He would be there until midnight.

Gibbs glares, and McGee nods.

"Okay, Boss!"

XXX

Jane is left to cool his heels in the interrogation room with Ziva to take a preliminary stab at him. Tony heads upstairs to conduct a background check and Gibbs stands outside sipping at his coffee, watching as he usually does.

Ziva can break a normal suspect in ten minutes, given full reign. But Jane is not a usual suspect.

_Sending in the big guns_, Jane thinks, keeping up his easy casual smile for the audience behind the glass screen. It's amusing, really, the way that they think they can trick him into confessing. As if he doesn't know exactly how they work. As if he isn't better than them.

She enters the room quietly and closes the door behind her with a soft audible click. His smile widens at the obvious scare tactic. Clearly, she's well versed in the strategies of interrogation: impress upon the suspect that he is locked in.

David moves with leonine grace: speed, agility and power coiled into a lithe body with graceful features. Fingers wrap around the chair and she drags it across the floor. Seats herself and flips open the case file, which snaps angrily onto the flaking interrogation table. She plants her hands on either side of the manila folder and leans forward.

He copies her actions, just to see how she will react.

"Shalom Aleichem, Agent David," Jane says casually, extending a hand across the table.

Ziva's eyes widen, a trace of shock is bizarre to a woman whom he bets is normally composed. The mask of professionalism slides back into place, but suspicion still lurks from behind dark eyes.

"Aleichem shalom, Mr. Jane," she replies, taking his hand in a firm handshake. "Where did you learn how to speak Hebrew?"

He had recognized her distinct, exotic features almost at once. A Star of David hanging around her neck. The liquid, seductive accent is almost icing upon the proverbial cake. But it is more than his usual excellent observational skills at work.

Rachel, his wife, had been Jewish. Lighter hair than this woman, but same petite frame and curls that he would run his hands through.

Jane shuts the brief connection away, and instead channels the pain into observing everything he can about this woman. _Not Rachel,_ he reminds himself, before his hands can betray himself and reach out to touch her face tenderly.

He needs to be on top of his game and there's no better way to start the game than with a curve ball. A quick little quip to throw 'routine questioning' on its side.

_They were curled by the fire drinking French Vanilla coffee because it was Rachel's favorite as she sounded out the phrase word for word. (Never drink coffee again without the memories). She dug her cold little toes into his calf (Are you cold in the ground, now, darling?) and laughed uproariously, throwing her head back with unabashed glee at his pronunciation. They had only been dating for several months, but he could already feel the something special,_the_connection forming between them._

"_You're saying it wrong, Patrick," Rachel giggled. "What are my parents going to say?"_

"_Why are you dating a_mensch_?"_

"_That's Yiddish," she said, amused. "Here, I'll say it slower."_

"Mr. Jane?" The woman whose voice was so much like Rachel's rises sharply. "Mr. Jane?"

He drags himself out of the memory and into the interrogation room, unsure of how long he had been gone for. Long enough for David to be giving him a questioning look tinged with…concern?

Christ, he needs to keep himself together.

"Pardon." Jane smiles charmingly.

He has learned long ago that sheepish and embarrassed looks good on him and he uses it here to his full advantage.

"Where did you learn to speak Hebrew?" she demands again, stubborn little thing.

"Same place you did." The words come easily, and he has no trouble lying to this woman and her colleagues.

As it is, David's eyes squint in suspicion and she asked skeptically, "Israel?"

He's conned her into unknowingly giving up a piece of information and he'll bet she hasn't noticed it yet. She's intent on getting what she wants from him, not even realizing the dual exchange of information that Jane collects as his arsenal.

David may be an expert in torture, interrogation and take downs, but she'll never have the upper hand in reading people. She needs to brush up on her observation manual. Too much focus is never a good thing.

Jane decides to continue toying with her. He's bored, and there's always the driving need to show off that he had never learned to properly curb.

"Is that where _you_ learned it?"

His grin widens; he and David are both aware that he's not even asking a question.

Irritation flashes in the honey brown eyes, and she says stiffly, "Yes."

Not many people are used to pulling one over this woman, and he's pulling the rug out from her tight control of the interrogation.

"You're Mossad." It's blunter than he would have liked, but it does the trick.

This makes her pause in her tracks, and suspicion crackles as she bristles sharply. The correct acknowledgment of her agency throws her for a loop. Her lips tighten, but she pushes aside his interruption and carries on, just like a good little solider. Jane can see the separate wheels of her brain churning as she simultaneously tries to figure out the source of his clairvoyance _and_ carry on the interrogation.

"You're mistaken, Mr. Jane," David says.

Jane grins. He knows that he is right.

"Please, call me Patrick. It's much more informal."

"Mr. Jane," she continues, and his eyes sparkle with amusement. "Where were you at 1:30 AM on June 11th?"

"Where to begin," he muses.

"It is not a difficult question," she counters.

"I've lived many June 11ths, Officer David," he replied glibly. "You must understand how difficult it is to remember them all."

"This year," she snaps.

"Ah, thank you for the clarification." Jane inclines his head. "Was that a Saturday?"

"A Tuesday. This morning!"

"This year?" he inquires, keeping the smile away at the deep impatience on her face. "I was sleeping."

"Were you?"

Jane ignores her. He cranes his head to see the glass screen better and calls, "You should really talk to Teresa Lisbon to confirm my alibi, Agent Gibbs."

"We wanted to hear it from you," David replies.

"Why? I could be lying."

"_Are_ you lying?" David pounces.

"No…" Jane smirks slightly. "But how would you know that? Oh, wait, your training _would_ give you the knowledge about heart rates, and specific physical ticks to spot. Am I looking down and to the left, Agent David?"

She doesn't bite.

"How did you know the victim?"

"Have you and Agent DiNozzo always been an item or is that just a recent thing?"

Jane steamrolls over her question with one of his own. It's a personal probing jab, the kind that he most enjoys delivering. And answering a question with a question often yielded interesting results with law enforcement.

David's mouth drops slightly, but she quickly closes it.

She's good, Jane admires. Anyone who wasn't specifically looking for a reaction would not have noticed the slip.

"How did you know the victim?" David repeats, fingers curling into a slight fist.

Jane tips his chair back, and folds his own fingers behind his head, casualness personified. "You know what I like about office romances? The intrigue. Will the boss catch me? Will we be sent to different teams? What does he think about the way I take down a suspect?"

"Agent DiNozzo and I are not a couple," David snaps, the litany of what-ifs finally getting to her.

"But you _are_ sleeping together," Jane says with a twisted smile.

David slams her fist down on the table and Jane jumps, taken aback by the sudden noise.

"Mr. Jane, you are trying my patience," David snarls. "Answer my question or—"

"You'll arrest me?" Jane offers, leaning back in his chair.

_This is getting_good.

David looks toward the glass and then turns back to Jane with a coy smile.

"Do you see that camera?" she says, pointing to the corner of the room.

"I see it."

"The flashing red light means that it is on."

"Okay."

David turns back toward the glass, and makes a slashing motion with her hand.

The red light stops flashing.

"Say good-bye to the camera, Mr. Jane," David says, sweetly.

"I don't do so well with torture," Jane says quickly. _Not so fun anymore_.

David advances around the table and stand behind Jane.

"I'm telling you, talk to Theresa Lisbon with the CBI," Jane says, craning his neck to look at her. "I'm not a suspect. You're looking for a Red John copy cat killer."

"Continue."

"The bloody smile is his trademark. Someone must have seen the case in the newspapers and decided to emulate it. He never leaves California."

"As far as you know."

"He never leaves California," Jane repeats. "You would see that if you called Lisbon."

The door opens, and DiNozzo limps in.

"Gibbs wants you, snookums," DiNozzo says.

David stalks toward the door, pausing in front of DiNozzo to share a short, silent communication, and she leaves, slamming the door behind her.

"You're a funny guy, aren't you, Mr. Jane?" DiNozzo says, meandering over to take a seat at the table with a sort of lazy nonchalance. He lays his crutches on the ground, and props his injured leg on top of the table.

"You're a popular guy, aren't you, Agent DiNozzo?" Jane intentionally mimics DiNozzo's previous phrasing, but has no intention of leaving it at just that. He delves straight into his brutal dissection of the man's character with no holds barred. "People like you; they think you're funny. Your boss depends on you, Agent McGee looks up to you, Agent David loves you. You've spent your whole life wanting people to like you. I bet…your mother died when you were young, and your father liked his scotch a little too much."

"Brandy," corrects DiNozzo, smile gone now. He folds his arms in a textbox defense mechanism, practically daring Jane to continue.

"You're competent enough to head your own team and yet you still play second in command. You're thoughtful when you need to be, and always dependable. You can slip on another person's personality like a coat, and I bet no one in this office knows who Tony DiNozzo really is."

"Enough," DiNozzo says coldly. He slaps a file onto the table and looks at Jane with a bitter smile. "Are you having fun?"

Jane smiles. He is.

"Your wife and daughter were killed by Red John five years ago," DiNozzo opens, staring down at the autopsy photos.

"Yes," Jane acknowledges lightly, aware the tables are turning slightly. He's heard these words before from people and it's no effort to keep the pleasant smile on his face.

To act as though what is being said isn't like a dagger through the heart.

DiNozzo raises his eyes slightly, to see the effect.

Jane turns up the brightness on his smile. _Take that, you bastard._

"You work for the CBI," he continues. "I understand that your case closure rates are impressive."

"I'm just a consultant," Jane says. "And I have help."

"Right. I'm sure they're very useful," says DiNozzo sarcastically. "Remember, Patrick, I've seen your work."

He motions to the brutal slashing on the naked torso. "There's no use being modest."

"Playing to my ego?" Jane replies, exposing the compliment for the interrogation tactic that it is. He shakes his head. "I expected better from you, Tony. It might have worked—if I had killed him."

They stare at each other for one brief, heated moment.

"Oh, you're good," DiNozzo admits, breaking the tension with a rueful scoff. "Better than I expected."

Jane smiles, pleased and satisfied with himself.

"You must irritate the hell out of Teresa Lisbon."

DiNozzo says her name with a bit of intimacy, and this sends Jane's Lisbon-sensors screaming for the hills.

_He knows her_.

"You've worked with her in the past," Jane says smoothly, rolling up his sleeves. He keeps his head down so that he doesn't see the shock that is surely written on DiNozzo's face. "You know how she can be."

DiNozzo remains amusingly non-committal on the issue of his connection with Lisbon. "Don't you ever stop analyzing people?"

"It's what they pay me for," Jane replies, laying his wrists on the table.

"Is that why you know who the killer is?"

"Of course," says Jane.

What goes unsaid: it's lunacy to think it would be any other reason.

"You never had contact with Captain James Brogan?"

"I did briefly connect with him in a psychic vision," Jane jokes.

DiNozzo doesn't smile.

"It's a joke, Agent DiNozzo."

"I'm aware. So tell me, who killed our victim?"

"I don't know the name."

"So when you announced back at the hotel that you knew who the killer was, you were lying?"

"I didn't lie," says Jane innocently.

_Bullshit,_DiNozzo's face suggests.

"I may have _exaggerated_for dramatic effect, but that's not a crime, now is it?"

"Lying to law enforcement officers is," DiNozzo intones gravely.

"Oh, come on, now you're just making that up. I've become a pain in the ass for you to deal with, and you're keeping me here to satisfy your juvenile sense of humor. I told you who the killer is. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with the rest of my vacation."

Jane stands up and goes toward the door. He pulls it open with a flourish, only to see Gibbs standing there. He takes a sip from his coffee cup and shows no signs of budging.

"DiNozzo," he drawls. "Show Mr. Jane back to his seat. We're not finished with him yet."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist or NCIS.**

**A/N: Thank you very much for everyone for reviewing. I would greatly appreciate it if more people could follow suit; it gives me a better idea of what you guys liked/want to see more of.**

"Fascinating," mutters Dr. Mallard from behind the interrogation glass mirror. "He's very good, Gibbs."

It is the mark of desperation: the M.E. has been pulled from his beloved morgue to perform an impromptu profile—despite the fact that he has consistently insisted on his proficiency in the language of the dead.

"Can ya tell me something I don't know, Duck?" Gibbs says with characteristic impatience. He takes a sip of his coffee. "Do you think he did it?"

"It's difficult to say," says Ducky. He pensively tilts his head and squints closer at Patrick. "He's hiding something, I'm sure of it."

"It'd be better if we could talk to this Teresa Lisbon," grumbles Gibbs. "To see if he really _is_ a consultant for the CBI."

"They would have his fingerprints on file," reasons Mallard. "But you would know that." He amends, "Am I to assume that you have not read Mr. Jane his rights yet?"

"Not yet," says Gibbs, the end word weighted like a promise.

"I'm quite sure our friend here is aware that his presence here is completely voluntary. And the question we have to ask ourselves is who would submit to a voluntary police interview?" Ducky muses. "A man who would like to prove his innocence? Certainly, but he would most likely obtain a lawyer."

Gibbs waits.

"Unlike Mr. Jane, who would have an intimate knowledge of law enforcement, and has no need to either proclaim his innocence or ask for a lawyer," continues Ducky, warming up to his theory in his usual long-winded fashion. "He's aware that he can walk away at any time, but still stays. This man…" He shakes a finger, almost pinpointing the reason. "…either has an agenda on his mind, or is so desperately lonely that he would rather spend it being interrogated."

"Do you think he's dangerous?"

Mallard pauses, and considers the man in the room next door, favoring them with a disarming smile.

"Yes, I think he could be."

"Any tips before I before I go in?"

Again the hesitation. "Ask him…ask him about his wedding ring."

"You're married."

A punch in the stomach before Jane is fully able to recuperate from the last grueling interview. They're throwing Feds at him, hoping one tactic will click and they will be able to worm information out.

Jane does a quick evaluation, putting together memories at the scene with observations in the here and now.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs is shorter than he expected: a compact efficient interrogating machine with silver hair and a focused glare_._

_No holds given. Ex-Marine. Blunt, direct and to the point. Used to having control. Stubborn, won't take no for an answer. Not to be trifled with._

He flicks his eyes up to scrutinize Gibbs' face and is met with a direct, steady gaze. Still hasn't answered Gibbs' remark but that doesn't seem to matter, because the man is content to sit in thickened silence and dead air.

Jane has seen Cho perform this maneuver on suspects hundreds of times before; just a little time in an enclosed space with Mr. Poker Face usually merits tearful confessions and outpourings of intimate details that the suspect has never intended to say.

Nothing rattles a person more than to be dissected by stares and silence cuts the psyche better than any knife. Jane has never been good at this technique; his words are both his sword and shield and silence to him has always been wholly unnecessary.

So he grins back, all impetuosity in the face of danger. Consciously slumps further into his seat, contrasting his position with Gibbs' own ramrod straight spine.

This would be interesting.

"Yes," Jane replies finally. "You were married, too. Several times, in fact."

"Your wife was murdered—"

"So was yours," Jane says evenly, cutting him off. He doesn't let the pain in his eyes, knows that this man would eat weakness for breakfast if he allowed it. "Your first wife, what was her name?"

"I ask the questions, Mr. Jane."

"You haven't been asking many at all, Agent Gibbs." Jane gives a tight smile that stretches across his eyes like a glare. "I'm here merely as a courtesy—"

"No, you're not," and it's Gibbs' turn to talk over him. "You want something."

Jane doesn't ask how he's gleamed this and it's accurate enough that Jane has to do some fancy mental footwork to think of what to say next.

"Have you talked to Teresa Lisbon yet?"

"How long have you been working for the CBI?"

"Why ask questions that you already know the answers to, Agent Gibbs?" He smiles. It mocks.

"Why are you here?"

Direct and blunt, just like the essence of the man in front of him.

Jane has never been satisfied to answer questions directly, to allow people to get an accurate read of his head.

The last time he had been so open and honest about his feelings, there had been bars on the windows and he had been practically catatonic.

Now does not seem like a good time to start telling the truth and Jane can be stubborn when he wants to. It's time to play with Agent Gibbs.

"You were married four times, divorced three. You favor redheads as a general rule. You drink your coffee black, favor bourbon over any other liquor and you prefer to work with your hands. You recently burned a boat that you were building in your basement; the boat was named after your daughter. You're a Marine and—"

"There's overwhelming evidence against you that you murdered that Navy Captain," Gibbs says, the words slick and slimy.

"So desperate that you have to resort to lies?" Jane smirks outright. "Agent Gibbs, that's no way to hold a conversation. I haven't even been Mirandaized yet."

"You can leave now," Gibbs says abruptly, like he knows there's no use playing this game any longer when Jane holds all the cards. He gets up from the table. "We'll be in contact. Just don't skip town."

Leaves the case file in front of Jane like temptation.

Everything that he was waiting for.

Jane wants to stretch a hand out…so close….

And realizes that Agent Gibbs is playing him.

_Touché. _

"We both know you didn't murder Brogan," Gibbs says quietly. "You're here for a specific reason, aren't you?"

"I need to see that case file, Agent Gibbs."

There's no use for pretty words and airs when what he wants is two inches away.

"It's right in front of you, Mr. Jane," he says mildly, sitting back down at the table now that Jane has folded his cards in desperation. Even pushes it over. "Maybe you can consult with us on this case."

"No one's been able to solve this case," Jane says tightly.

"It's your case," Gibbs says.

"Yes."

"It's your family's case."

Jane stiffens. "Yes."

"You want revenge."

Jane meets his eyes. Lets the smile fall and everything else that is just the actor leave until it is Patrick Jane, father and husband of the murdered Rachel and Becca that sits in front of Leroy Jethro Gibbs, father and husband of the murdered Shannon and Kelly.

Yes, this man understands him.

"Did it…" Jane hates struggling for words, and that is why he has always tried to make his loquaciousness a part of himself. "…Did it make the pain go away?"

"No," Gibbs with finality and grit. "Because it didn't bring them back."

_Oh_.

And Jane understands.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own either show.**

**A/N: Did you ever think you would see another chapter to this? I sure didn't. Things got pretty busy for me personally. Thanks for sticking with it, and reviewing. All of you readers are the best. **

**I should add that this will be AU for both shows. So any new revelations will not be included.**

* * *

"Jane's working the case," Gibbs snaps out, low and quick as he enters the bullpen.

McGee, Ziva and Tony exchange glances—the special kind of glances that tend to be exchanged between Gibbs' subordinates. This particular glance is in the vein of '_what the hell'_ and '_did he just say that?_'

McGee is the first to verbally protest. "What'd you say, Boss?"

"Jane. He's working with us. Consulting. Get him sorted with a visitor's badge, McGee."

"Yes, Boss," says McGee quickly, and turns back to his computer screen.

Ziva is not so easy to placate. She narrows her eyes and folds her arms, face inscrutable. "Gibbs, I don't know if it is wise to have a civilian consulting on this case. He will be a liability."

Gibbs shrugs. "He says he knows the case. Might as well give him a chance."

"Since when do you give chances?" mutters Tony, mostly to himself.

"You have an objection, DiNozzo, you say it to me," says Gibbs sharply.

Tony raises his head. "How do we know he's not the guy? How do we know he's not inserting himself into the investigation because he gets off on it?"

"He's not," says Gibbs, in a tone of finality. He's made his decision, and he's done with the subject.

Ziva presses her lips together, no more convinced than Tony is. Tony grimaces, but doesn't say anything. They both know they cannot dissuade Gibbs once his gut speaks.

"Where are we at with the surveillance footage?" says Gibbs.

"Abby is examining it now," says Ziva.

Gibbs grunts. "What about witnesses?"

"You mean other than Jane?" says Tony, a little too innocently.

"If this is going to be a sore spot for you, DiNozzo, you can always work a cold case," says Gibbs.

McGee scrambles for his notebook, narrating as he looks through his desk. "The, uh, girl at the front desk said that the Captain went up to his room at midnight. A woman asked about his room number about an hour later."

"And…?"

McGee kneels on the floor and continues to paw through his lower desk drawers. "Uh, hang on, Boss. I'm not sure where—"

"Looking for this?" prompts Ziva, holding up his satchel.

McGee looks up, and his entire face drops into a scowl. "Yes."

"Is that a…purse, McGee?" says Gibbs, sounding confused.

"It's a satchel," says McGee, harassed.

"Well, is your notebook in that thing, so we can continue?"

Ziva throws his notebook across the room. McGee leaps out of his chair, rescuing it before it collides with his computer monitor.

"Air McBud!" chortles Tony.

"As I was saying," says McGee emphatically. He intends to sound haughty but ends up more at constipated. "A woman asked about the Captain's room number an hour later. She stayed at the hotel bar for a while, and then checked into a room on the same floor. Gave her name as Cora Tanner."

He clicks the remote and a young woman's pleasantly round face appears on the large view screen. She has dishwater blonde hair, a small nose, and startlingly green eyes. Not someone who looks like a cold blooded killer. But then, looks can be so deceiving, can't they?

"We interview her?"

"I knocked on her door, but no one answered. Guess she checked out before they discovered the Captain's body."

"Let's go track her down," says Gibbs. "Ziva, with me. McGee, keep running through the witnesses, see if there's anything funny. DiNozzo, you're on the Captain's financials."

* * *

"Can you do that again?"

Abby peers eagerly into Jane's empty hand. He grins slightly. It's nice to have such a receptive audience. Not many people appreciate sleight of hand for the art that it is. Even though his hand waving skills took the most practice to master, he has found that the majority of people like fancy tricks.

"It's very simple to do," he says, producing his rubber ball out of his coat sleeve and letting it rest in his open palm. "All about directing your attention one way while your hands do the real work."

"There's a science to it," says Abby, thoughtfully. She takes the rubber ball and rubs it between her palms. "I like that."

Jane is surprised, despite himself. He's never thought of it that way. "Do you want to learn how to do it?"

"Absolutely," says Abby, beaming. "I dated a magician once, and he used to perform for me. But he never explained how he did anything."

"A magician never reveals his secrets," says Jane playfully, just to watch her frown. He likes her open, expressive face, how every emotion sits in the dimples of her checks or the furrow of her brow. "But luckily, I'm a CBI consultant, not a magician."

"Now you're a NCIS consultant," says Gibbs, from the doorway. "You can show Abby your parlor tricks some other time."

"It's been a pleasure," says Jane, bowing formally.

Abby smiles, and waves him out the door.


End file.
